Chances
by TolkienGirl
Summary: After another failed attempt to rescue Henry, Neal says the wrong thing. "Maybe she didn't want a chance. Maybe she didn't want to be the Savior. If some choices weren't hers make, some weren't hers to know." Angsty Emma-Neal-Mary Margaret one-shot. T for mild language.


**A/N: Once again, insight into Emma's feelings about Neal. Warning: I tend to be pretty Anti-Swanfire/Swanthief, and I'm not a huge fan of Neal either (I do love Michael Raymond-James, though!)...I get super frustrated with him, but at the same time, I think he's a very well-done character. Maybe someday I'll write a fic investigating his side of things. I certainly don't think he should be senselessly hated on-he has a lot of hurt in his own life, and has made good and bad decisions...I just believe that he acted very wrongly towards Emma. At the moment, I'm way more connected with Emma. So that's the explanation/disclaimer for this fic. I hope you enjoy it! I hope you review it ;-)**

**I don't own anything that doesn't belong to me.**

A stream of curse words ratchet out like bullets within her, but her lips are shut tight. Her sword, hacking aimlessly through the brush, is doing her swearing for her.

After what felt like years (_in truth, a day_) of painfully cautious tracking, they had reached Pan's camp at last: and there, guarded by a circle of armed lost boys, had been Henry, looking at her with such hope in his eyes. She had felt his name catch in her throat, but that, too, had never left her lips…for an instant later his smile twisted…

"Nice try, Emma." The voice—young in its tone and old in its mockery—could only belong to one.

So she'd charged at Pan, spurred on by the fury that can only come with knowledge of defeat. He hadn't moved aside—he'd had no need to, for just as her sword plunged towards him, he had disappeared in a vapour of magic, with a laugh that sliced like a blade.

She had fallen forward, with dirt in her mouth that tasted no worse than the tears she forbade herself to shed.

The lost boys—no illusions, they—had put up a fierce skirmish that had ended with them melting tauntingly into the trees, leaving Emma and the others with no noticeable injuries…except for the ever-widening one on her heart.

_Good thing no one can see that_. She decapitates another shrub, then feels a hand trace her arm.

"Emma."

"Yes, Neal?" she grinds her teeth.

He moves his hand, conscious of her discomfort of being touched. _By him. _"You should get some rest. We're setting up camp here."

She knows this. Mary Margaret is poking at the fire, pretending not to look concerned at her, and Hook and David are off gathering firewood. Or something. She knows she shouldn't be, but she's peeved at them both for leaving, leaving her with Neal, who sees nothing, and her mother, who sees too much.

"I don't need rest. I need to find _our_ son." She means it to be an accusation, and tries to pretend she isn't sorry to see him wince.

"I know. I know this is a disappointment."

Maybe she isn't sorry, after all. "It's more than a _disappointment_. It's—" she stops short, because she isn't quite sure what exactly the thing that's tearing at her heart _is_. _It's not for Neal to know_. She stiffens ever so slightly, hoping that he sees it as a warning and not as a defense mechanism. _Which it is_. "I'm just pissed, that's all. And if that little bastard hadn't moved, I would have _run him through_. I will yet."

"Pan's not easy to kill."

Is he _seriously _patronizing her right now? "Yeah, got that."

He's making an effort, she can see. She should, probably, appreciate it. But she's long past reciprocity of civility. "We'll find him. Henry," he says at last, and she imagines it would be a lot more believable if he himself thought it true.

"Really? Because I'm starting to wonder…if that's even _possible_. Maybe this is the fate we've all been led to…to run around in circles on an Island where time never passes…searching for someone who's already too lost to be found."

And there _it _is. The very same _it_ that Neal wasn't supposed to be privy to—her fear, the terror that's been eating her from the inside out ever since they set foot in this cursed land.

She presses her lips against each other, hard, wish she could seal them shut. She hadn't meant to say all that. _Not aloud. Not in front of her mother. Not to Neal._

"Hey," he says, and his hand is ghosting near her arm again. "The Emma I knew—" he stops short and they both know why. He grimaces, just a little bit, and she'll give him that—his cat-burglar intuition skills are telling him he just _screwed up big time_.

But the fact that she knows that he knows this isn't going to stop her from saying what she has to. Because if she doesn't say it now, now, when it's burning just under her skin, she may let it turn to ashes again—gray and cold and forgotten. So she lets herself go.

"I'm _not _the Emma you knew. The Emma _you_ knew died a long time ago, bit by bit. You want me to spell it out? That Emma died with a bag of watches. She died handcuffed to a hospital bed, delivering a baby she didn't even get to hold. She died every birthday she spent in an empty apartment. She died when she went for therapy to a guy who seemed so kind and caring, who she let herself pretend was a replacement for you, until she found out he was _married_. That Emma died in Tallahassee, _alone_."

She hears her mother, who's now listening, mouth the tearful words, "Emma, _honey, I had no idea—_" and she won't let her finish because if she does, she's going to burst into tears and that _can't_ happen. "Save the pity. I don't want to be that Emma Swan anymore. Because she didn't know anything about life. And she didn't really know how to love. That Emma Swan belonged to her fears and her hopes and to _you—_and I _don't_. I'm done belonging to anyone."

She wonders why freeing herself like that, from him, from everything, only makes her feel more locked up within herself. _Floating in defiance till you find a sense of false security in your next prison. That's all you're good for._

She blows out her breath—wondering, again, why she keeps spilling her guts to Neal, of all people. She raises her hand to him—_stay away,_ and maybe a bit of _this is bigger than you…_the most apology he's going to get. Then she turns and moves, tramping across the branches she had broken, a few yards away from the campsite.

Out of (_his_) sight, she crouches down, making herself as small as possible—and all the reasons why she's done that in past years…to hide, to disappear…don't hurt as much as the reason she's doing it now.

_I'm hiding from me._

Because she isn't the Emma Swan Neal knew—and thank God for that—but she's not sure just which Emma Swan she _is_ anymore. Savior? Princess?

_Lost girl._

It was so much easier being a bailbonds person.

Of course, she isn't alone for long…at least in theory. In her heart, she's never felt more desolate. But here is Mary Margaret, sitting down beside her, and of course she means well.

Emma steels her defense against _means well_ and gives her half a tight smile.

"I…know you might not want to talk."

"You do."

Mary Margaret nods a little, with that soft motherly look sneaking in around the corners of her eyes and—_God,_ how that look hurts…_and how she wants it_—

"I just…I thought I might be able to explain a little. About what Neal meant."

"Give it a go," Emma says, and she's half-glad that she's too old to be scolded for sassing back.

She feels her mother take a deep breath. "I know how much it hurt you, that he left. Some choices aren't ours to make. Sometimes we have to hurt the ones we care about. But he was giving you your best chance."

_Just like you were_. "Maybe," Emma hears her own voice say, quite softly. "But…maybe I didn't want a chance. Maybe I didn't want to be the Savior. You think some choices aren't ours to make? Well, in my experience, some weren't mine to know. Other people have made choices for me my whole life, without even telling me why. You know what? _That_ is what really sucks. Because I didn't feel like my life was being driven by a great and sacrificial destiny. I just felt like it was…chipped away at, bit by bit, by people who kept leaving me. That didn't feel like I was being given my best chance. It felt like nobody wanted to take a chance with _me_."

She feels her mother's cold hands wrap around hers, and she pretended that the reason she held onto them was for Mary Margaret's sake, not her own. "Your father and I…we're sorry. And…Neal is too, Emma. He still cares for you. He's here now."

"Yup. I got that, from the whole 'still-fighting-for-you' speech."

Mary Margaret's eyebrows arch up. "He said that? Emma, that's—"

"Not enough." She smiles, but for some reason it doesn't feel like one. "That best chance you mentioned?"

"Yes?"

Emma breathes out. "It was his last one with me."

**A/N: Review? ;-)**


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